


Clutch Up

by DaScribbla



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And then it gets kinky, Car Sex, F/F, Fashion & Couture, Fashion Editor!Natasha, Intern!Wanda, Mild Devil Wears Prada AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-07-21 18:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7398355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaScribbla/pseuds/DaScribbla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wanda really shouldn't feel the way she does about her new boss. Especially since her boss is one of the most influential fashion editors in the world. Is that going to stop her? Probably not. </p><p>Rated M for later chapters. Rating may go up, who knows?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how this happened, but enjoy! S/O to shakespeareia for sending me countless image refs as well as cheerleading me on this one. It's greatly appreciated and I hope you enjoy what I turn out.

 

* * *

_Didn’t Sappho say her guts clutched up like this?_

_Before a face suddenly numinous,_

_her eyes watered, knees melted. Did she lactate_

_again, milk brought down by a girl’s kiss?_

_It’s documented torrents are unloosed_

_by such events as recently produced_

_not the wish, but the need, to consume, in us,_

_one pint of Maalox, one of Kaopectate._

_My eyes and groin are permanently swollen,_

_I’m alternatingly brilliant and witless_

_—and sleepless: bed is just a swamp to roll in._

_Although I’d cream my jeans touching your breast,_

_sweetheart, it isn’t lust; it’s all the rest_

_of what I want with you that scares me shitless._

\- Marilyn Hacker, [Didn't Sappho say her guts clutched up like this?]

* * *

Wanda still wasn’t sure how she’d gotten the job. 

Well, okay. That wasn’t quite true. She’d talked to her brother, who’d talked to his boyfriend, who’d in turn used his influence to pull a few strings and get her in. Was it unethical? Perhaps, but Wanda was too relieved to simply be holding down a job to waste time on details like nepotism and unfair advantage. 

Still, as she looked up at the enormous office building, which stretched upwards like a steel hand against the skyline, she felt a tremor of familiar anxiety. She’d taken her medication, so she should be fine. And it wasn’t like she’d never done a first day at a new job before. She’d interned with countless newspapers, done a horrible stint as a waitress, and worked in libraries. This was nothing new, right?

But beginning an internship with Bouclier Fashion Magazine… That wasn’t something you did every day. 

_It’s just another internship,_ she told herself as she stepped inside the lobby of the offices. _Just another internship with the most well-known fashion magazine in the US. It’s gonna be okay. Right?_

The elevator was occupied already: a tall blond man nursing a Starbucks and a tall dark-haired man with arms crossed as he stared at the ceiling. Both wore suits and both were unfairly good-looking. Wanda pressed her back against the wall at the other end of the elevator and kept her eyes trained on the floor. She felt suddenly rather campy in her purple pencil skirt and her rings. 

“Are you the new girl?” 

To her horror, Blond Guy had spoken to her. She pressed her lips together and nodded, avoiding his eyes. He smiled reassuringly. 

“I’m Steve.”

“Bucky,” the other man put in with a wave. 

Perhaps Steve noticed her nervousness because he added, “It’s gonna be okay. It takes some time to learn the ropes, but after that…” He made a wave with his hand. “Smooth sailing.”

“Okay,” she managed. Then, feeling that something more was expected of her, she added, “I’m Wanda.”

“Good to meet you, Wanda.”

The elevator bell dinged and the doors slid open to reveal a surprisingly quiet office block. And chic, Wanda noted. The walls had been painted black, most of the furniture white. Very mod, very minimalist. She stared around the place appreciatively. 

“Hey Wanda!”

She turned at the familiar voice to see Clint striding towards her, shrugging on his suit jacket. His tie looked rumpled already. But it was a relief to see somebody she knew.

“Hey!” 

“Welcome to your first day in the big leagues,” he said, enveloping her in a hug. “Pietro says hi and good luck, by the way.”

“Tell him thank-you, but I _did_ get his text.”

“Will do.”

“So, where am I in here?” she asked, gesturing expansively the offices. 

“There’s a spare desk in my office. You’ll be working there.” He jerked his head. “C’mon, I’ll show you.” He put an arm around her shoulders and led her through the maze of office blocks and tired people in bespoke clothing.

“So, I’m doing… what, exactly?” Wanda asked as they walked.

“Bit o’ this , bit o’ that,” said Clint. “Mostly you’ll be handling correspondence between us and designers. You’re our go-between.”

“Okay, people _will_ be telling me what to say, right?”

“Totally! We’re not leaving that stuff to wee babes, Wanda. You can take dictations, right?”

“I’m a classically trained English major, Clint. What do _you_ think.”

“Fair enough, fair enough.” They’d stopped outside Clint’s cubicle: a glass-walled, tastefully designed office that was completely identical to all the others with the exception of the découpaged poster of dogs hanging on one wall. It was surprisingly large, able to fit two standard-sized desks with extra room. “Mine,” said Clint, pointing to the desk covered in papers and old coffee mugs. “Yours.” The desk he’d designated as Wanda’s was completely bare. “Feel free to decorate as you wish. We all do it. You brought your laptop, right?”

“Yep.” Wanda patted the weighty case that hung from her left shoulder.

“Good good good. I’ll get you the Wi-fi password ASAP.”

“Get ready, you guys!” called a voice from the corridor outside. “She’s on her way!”

“Welp, Sam has spoken,” said Clint. He turned to Wanda. “Gird your loins.”

“Beg your pardon?”

He grinned. “The queen has entered the office.”

Wanda opened her mouth to say something else, but at that moment she was aware of a sudden roar of activity coming from outside the cubicle. 

Bucky, Steve, and a blonde woman in suit pants whom Wanda hadn’t met all trailed after another woman. She was swaddled in a large black coat, the collar of which reached the line of her jaw, the hem of which brushed her shins. Her red hair was piled on top of her head, secured with chopsticks. Wanda was suddenly aware of her heart beating faster.

“... tell him we’ve got it covered,” she was saying. 

“Oh, and Laufeyson called with a spread proposition,” Steve was adding. “I wasn’t sure if --”

“Don’t reply. After what he pulled last year, he’ll know where to shove --” The red-haired woman stopped just past Clint’s cubicle and turned on one several-inch-high heel to look at Wanda. One elegant eyebrow lifted. “You’re Miss Maximoff?”

Wanda, willing her blush away, nodded tightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

The woman smiled crookedly, a curve of burgundy lipstick. “Natasha Romanova. Come to my office in five minutes.”

“Ma’am.” It seemed to be all she could say. And her employer was already departing, flanked by her retinue of well-dressed aides. She turned to Clint and hissed, “How’d I do?”

“Pretty good, considering it was your first time.”

Wanda sat on her bare desk. 

“You didn’t tell me she was going to be hot, though,” she hissed. 

“Wanda, she’s one of the most successful fashion editors in the world. _And_ a formal model. Did you think she _wasn’t_ going to be?”

“Point taken, but I didn’t think she was going to be --” Wanda stopped herself. “Okay. Five minutes, right?”

“Right.”

“And her office is down at the end of the hallway,” said Clint. “You can’t miss it. Hey,” he added. “I’m proud of you.” Wanda smiled, albeit nervously. “You’re gonna do just fine.”

*

“You know where everything is?”

Miss Romanova leaned back in her leather office chair, gazing with a vague smile at Wanda, who stood before her employer’s desk rather awkwardly.

“I know where I’m working,” Wanda said with a little laugh. Miss Romanova’s smile didn’t alter and Wanda found herself quickly avoiding her gaze. There was a replica Georgia O’Keefe hanging on one wall. _Black Iris._

“Have you met everyone yet?”

Wanda stole another glance at her. She’d hung her coat up at the door, revealing the trim office dress she’d been wearing underneath. Black and white flowers with the occasional hint of gold in their centers. Discreet pearl jewelry, again with hints of gold. 

“Not yet, but that’ll happen over time, right?” she managed at last, twisting one of her rings back and forth around her finger. She heard Miss Romanova hum laughter.

“Yes. So, tell me, Wanda.” Miss Romanova cocked her head to the side. “I know you probably got this question in the job interview, but since I wasn’t the one conducting that, bear with me. What attracted you to this job?”

Wanda ran through her answers in her head. On one hand she could tell her what she probably wanted to hear -- _I just love fashion and I want to have Zac Posen’s babies!_ On the other hand she could be honest. Wanda went with what she’d said in the interview.

“I’m not particularly interested in the fashion world,” she said and saw Miss Romanova’s elegantly-manicured eyebrows lift. “It’s not what I want to do in life. I want to write. But if it gets me the experience and the exposure I need, what does that matter? And I can assure you that I’ll work my hardest despite my lack of interest.”

Miss Romanova studied her for a long moment, her expression entirely unreadable behind the layers of eye makeup and lipstick. 

“So you’re motivated by personal ambition,” she said at last.

“Well,” Wanda began awkwardly, but her employer continued.

“Don’t make excuses. You were doing well up until then.” Miss Romanova’s lips curved into another vague smile. “I like employees who are willing to claw their way up.” She reached for a manilla folder on her desk and Wanda noticed that her short fingernails were painted a deep wine color. “Shut the door on the way out, would you, Wanda?” Internally breathing a sigh of relief, Wanda turned and headed for the door. “Oh and Wanda?” 

She turned. “Ma’am?”

Miss Romanova gave her what just might have been a genuine smile. 

“Welcome.”

*

_“So how was your first day?”_ Wanda tucked her phone between her ear and her shoulder, keys jangling as she unlocked the door to her flat. Her brother’s voice sounded teasing over the phone. _“Hectic as all get-out?”_

“It’s not as bad as all that,” she said, stepping into her flat and depositing her purse on the coffee table. “It’s mostly a lot of researching designer budgets and hoping you’re pronouncing all their names correctly. Apparently using the French accent in _Yves Saint Laurent_ isn’t mandatory when you’re doing business?”

_“Will the wonders never cease?”_ said Pietro dryly. _“Hey, wanna come over and have dinner? I’m ordering pizza.”_

“That sounds really nice, but I gotta recharge.” Wanda flopped down on her sofa and put her feet up on the armrest. “Maybe in a week. I need some time to adjust.”

_“Did you meet your boss?”_

“I did,” said Wanda.

_“Well?”_

“Well what?”

_“What’s she like? You’re working for Natasha-freakin’-Romanova. I expect details.”_

“Can’t you ask Clint? She’s his boss too.”

_“I want to hear what_ you _think of her.”_

“Well.” Wanda rolled her shoulders. “She’s gorgeous, but you knew that anyway. And the others seem to like her. She seems like a good boss.”

_“Wanda, you’re working for an international celebrity and that’s all you’ve got?”_

“Why don’t _you_ go work for her if you’re so interested?”

_“I’m just curious.”_

“Are you sure this isn’t why you and Clint are dating?”

_“What? No!”_

Wanda just laughed. “‘Bye, Pietro. Talk to you later.” She dropped her phone on the coffee table beside her purse. She loved her twin dearly, but he had a tendency to be overbearing. Particularly when she’d just gotten home from work. 

Although since he did mention it, she _was_ working for a celebrity. It didn’t really sink in, weirdly enough. She’d expected to be unable to forget who her employer was, but something about Miss Romanova made it easy. She carried herself with an air of self-importance, but it didn’t feel, well… the way a celebrity would. _Stars,_ she thought wryly. _They’re just like us._

Curiosity made her pick up her phone again and google her. It felt awkward, but she wasn’t doing anything wrong, right? Besides, she was willing to bet that everybody else in that office had done it, too, at least once. 

Let’s see… _Natasha Romanova Vacationing At The Riviera…  Award-Winning Fashion Editor Wearing Chanel to Tokyo Function… Natasha Romanova Spotted With Latest Boytoy…_

Wanda peered closer at that last one, particularly the photograph in the article. Was that... ? No. It couldn’t be. Was it? 

The photo was from Fashion Week two years before: Miss Romanova in a black tulle dress that looked like something out of _Sabrina_ , one bejeweled hand wrapped around the waist of a man who bore an astonishing resemblance to Steve from work. Had they been a thing at one point? Curiosity really piqued now, Wanda continued to scroll through the search results. But there were more photos of Miss Romanova -- all of them featuring her wearing stunning haute couture, all of them featuring a man from work. There was Steve again, there was Bucky, there was Sam Wilson. Bucky again. Sam again. Steve again. One with Clint from several years ago. So, had she dated all of them at one point or another, or was this casual…?

She really had no reason to be interested in this. She clicked out of the window, deleted the search history out of a mixture of guilt and regret, and then went to find dinner. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Get yourself some goddamn chips, Miss Maximoff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaack!! 
> 
> I have pretty much nothing to say except that Bouclier is, indeed, French for shield.

It only took Wanda about a week to figure out that her employer was not dating any of the men employed by _Bouclier_. She was friendly with them, sure, but there was almost certainly no chance that she and, say, Sam, were doing the nasty in the darker corners of her office. 

This was because she was too busy with Sharon.

Wanda had noticed first that something was, well, _amiss_ when Miss Romanova and several of the subeditors -- including Sharon -- had left the office for a meeting. Several hours later, Wanda had just come out of the copy room from printing her report on designer budgets and so had seen Bucky and Steve return, shrugging off their coats and talking, their hands linked (that was another thing. Those two were far too involved in each other to be bothered with anyone else). 

“Where’s Sharon and the queen?” she asked Bucky -- Clint’s method of reference to Miss Romanova had rubbed off on her, despite her best efforts.

“Had some follow-up stuff to do,” said Bucky with a perfect poker face. 

An hour and a half later Miss Romanova and Sharon stepped out of the elevator, looking entirely presentable. When Sharon later ducked into Clint’s office to ask for the latest article pitches, Wanda had noticed -- in passing, at the time -- that Sharon was wearing a shade of very familiar burgundy lipstick. As opposed, of course, to her usual mocha color.

After that it was kind of difficult _not_ to notice. They weren’t making any attempts to conceal anything, but by some unspoken agreement the others never mentioned it. Or perhaps Wanda was just going crazy. Still, when she ran into Person B leaving Person A’s office with smeared makeup as she tugged her skirt back down -- there were only so many conclusions she could draw.

“Clint?” Wanda asked on afternoon, near the end of the work day. 

“Hm?” He was scribbling furiously on his notepad, having just gotten off the phone with a spokeswoman from YSL. 

“Is the Queen -- you know --” she lowered her voice ever further, glancing at the open door -- “straight?”

Clint snorted.

“As spaghetti.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, after you’ve cooked it.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Why would you want to know a little thing like that?”

“No reason,” Wanda sad in a tone that she hoped passed for nonchalant. “Just wondered.” 

Clint half-smiled. “You’re wondering about Sharon, aren’t you.”

“Guilty as charged.” Heat rose to her cheeks despite her casual words.

“Yeah, Nat’s like that,” Clint said, turning back to his work. “Not much of a dater, but very into the physical side of things, if you get my drift.”

“Right,” said Wanda. She was trying very hard not to look embarrassed. 

“By the way, your brother’s moving in with me.”

“Wait, _what?”_

“Oh, he didn’t tell you?” Clint leaned back in his chair, clearly pleased and doing his best not to show it. “Yep. Next Wednesday.”

“Wow. Congrats.” Wanda then rolled her eyes. “Although, leave it to my brother to let his boyfriend tell me that he’s changing residence.”

“Yeah, that’s Pietro for you.”

“Yeah. You know, he wouldn’t tell me when he was staying after school when we were --” She broke off as Natasha Romanova, the high-end fashion queen herself, knocked on the open glass door. Wanda was uncomfortably aware of her mouth drying out all at once. Miss Romanova was wearing another one of her office dresses, a peach-and-ivory striped one with a mandarin collar and a hem that just ended above the knee. 

“Your Highness,” Clint said, taking his feet from the desk in one fluid, unconcerned movement. “What can I do for you today?”

Miss Romanova’s lipsticked mouth curved upwards as she leaned against the door.

“Actually it was Miss Maximoff I wanted to see.” She turned her eyes on Wanda, who was suddenly aware of her heart beating faster. “Wanda, mind if I steal you for a moment?”

“Not at all,” she said and rose to follow Miss Romanova out of the cubicle and around the corner. “Ma’am?”

Miss Romanova smiled as she cocked her head to the side. 

“You’ve been working very hard,” she said, resting one elegantly manicured hand against the wall. Still the wine-colored nails, Wanda noticed. “I appreciate that.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You want to write, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, then.” Miss Romanova flashed a cool smile. “I want a list of potential stories on my desk by tomorrow night. Think you can manage that for me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wanda heard herself say before her head could catch up. When it did, it made her add -- _“_ How many do you want?”

“As many as you can think up,” she said. “Just one stipulation -- don’t be conventional.”

“Ma’am?”

“Fashion magazines seem to be running the same kinds of articles -- prep for Fashion Week, what the stars are wearing, what’s coming into vogue in the future, pardon my language.” Miss Romanova’s feelings on _Vogue_ were well-known. “Bullshit. What makes _us_ the best is innovation. So give me something innovative.”

“Um, you remember that I don’t like fashion, right? I don’t know the first thing about --” Miss Romanova interrupted her smoothly as she wrapped a hand around Wanda’s fingers, bringing them forward to inspect.

“These rings,” she said, pointing to each one on Wanda’s fingers. “Tell me about them.”

“Well, that one’s my mom’s… Um.” Wanda stole a glance at Miss Romanova, but her employer was totally impassive. “Um, those three are from a corner shop I like. That’s from, um, an old girlfriend --”

“I wonder how many of us wear things out of sentimental value, rather than for aesthetic reasons,” Miss Romanova mused. She shot a smile that was a little less cool than last time. “Try that as a jumping-off point. Now,” she continued in a far more businesslike tone, “I have to go and field a call from a _very_ brave L and O representative. Good luck, Wanda.” With that parting she turned on one stiletto heel and _click-click-clicked_ back to her office. 

Wanda’s heart was beating very quickly.

_Oh, come on_ , she said to herself as she walked back to Clint’s office. _I can_ not _get the hots for my employer. That’s so… that’s so fucking_ juvenile _…_

Still, proof was in the pudding, as they say, and the red blush on her cheeks was proof enough.

*

“So you’ve got your first mission, huh?”

“It’s not a _mission_ , Pietro.” Wanda stirred sugar into her tea, the wind blowing her hair backwards. Her brother had decided to take her to her favorite outdoor coffee shop that evening as a celebration for surviving a week in the world of High Fashion. “She’s not the director of a spy ring or something.”

“Although, going by the photos,” Pietro said, “she totally could be. Write that down. You never know when you might need a hot secret agent for your book. So.” He put down his coffee and waved his hands. “What’ve you got so far.”

“Period underwear, movie costumes, and street interviews. And some other stuff, but those are the three I feel best about.”

Pietro wrinkled his forehead. “Street interviews?”

“Like --” Wanda waved her hands vaguely -- “interviewing people on the street about things they wear out of personal value. Not aesthetic.”

“That’s cool,” said Pietro, nodding his approval. He jerked his head at Wanda’s hands, clutched around the coffee mug. “Were you thinking of Mom’s ring?”

Wanda hesitated and then nodded. 

“Yeah.” Eager to change the subject, Wanda added -- “So, you and Clint are moving in?” Pietro grinned sheepishly, his face going bright red against the white of his hair.

“Yup. Decided a couple days ago over dinner.” 

“Awww, you’re growing up…” Wanda cooed and her brother gave her a look of mock affront.

“Wanda Maximoff, I am twelve minutes older than you!”

It was an old joke between them and they laughed it mostly out of habit. 

“So, am I to take it that things are working out well with you two?” Wanda asked. 

“Yes. Very well.” Pietro grinned and went even redder. 

“Must be nice,” Wanda said wistfully. Pietro caught her tone.

“Hey. You’re not going to be alone forever,” he said. “Come on, you’re going to meet some guy or some girl and you’ll go to Star Wars conventions and, I don’t know, make scented candles together on weekends. Marathon shitty art movies on Netflix.”

“You know me too well. And _The Double_ was fucking amazing, thank you very much.” Wanda rolled her eyes. “But seriously though. I mean -- it’s weird. Society is telling me I need somebody, feminism is telling me I don’t, and I’m just here, like --” She lifted her hands and waved them back and forth, fingers spread, with an expression of exaggerated panic, eyes wide and teeth bared.

“Please don’t do that,” Pietro said. “You look like one of the chickens from _Chicken Run._ ”

“Okay.” Wanda lowered her hands, laughing.

“I get you, though,” he said. “But hey, at least you don’t have to deal with somebody putting their cold feet on you at like three in the morning.”

“There is that,” Wanda conceded, nodding sagely. “It’s just such a weird state of being, though,” she added. “People like you, but not _enough_. You know?”

“I know.” Pietro grinned suddenly. “Hey, why don’t we get ice cream and then go back to my flat while I still own it so you can show me _Cloudburst._ ”

“Sounds like a plan.”

*

Six o’clock, evening. Wanda took a deep breath and knocked on Miss Romanova’s door.

“Come in,” came the voice from beyond and Wanda, taking a moment to steel herself, turned the doorknob and stepped inside the office.

Miss Romanova looked up at her with a cool, burgundy smile in place. The discreet scent of Chanel somehow managed to be everywhere.

“I have the story ideas you asked for,” Wanda said, holding up the sheet she’d just printed. It was still warm from the copier. 

“Excellent.” Miss Romanova reached out a hand and took the sheet from her; Wanda turned to leave (read, escape). “Nonono, don’t leave yet,” her employer said. “I want to talk about your ideas with you.” Silently wondering why she couldn’t be allowed to simply work in relative peace at her desk and why the universe seemed fixated on picking on her specifically, Wanda turned back around.

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Miss Romanova was reading the list, head cocked to one side. The seconds dragged on. Wanda began to feel as though _Black Iris_ , hanging on the wall, was staring at her. 

“Underwear through the ages?” Miss Romanova said at last, looking up from the paper. Wanda nodded tightly, swallowing. 

“I just thought it would be different --”

“I think it’s a _great_ idea.” The other woman nodded her approval. “Pop into Sharon’s office and tell her to get a hold of the Kyoto Costume Institute, would you? I’ve been wanting to involve them in something for years and I think this would be a perfect opportunity.”

Wanda resisted the urge to glow. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I like the interview idea, too,” Miss Romanova said, this time with a slight curve to her lips. “I think that has the potential to be quite powerful. Tell me, Wanda --” she leaned forward -- “how would you like to handle the interviews themselves?”

She felt as though someone had just smashed their fist into her solar plexus; even mere contemplation of the idea made her feel as though she were suffocating. 

“... do you need to sit down?” Miss Romanova was saying. Wanda blinked. Her employer was on her feet and had somehow gotten around the desk so that she now stood directly in front of her. Wanda could see the frilled hem of her employer’s navy dress. Weird the things you noticed at times like this...

“Um, I’m sorry, what?”

“Here.” Wanda glanced down in surprise as Miss Romanova took her arm and guided her into a nearby chair before taking a seat on the edge of her desk. “Are you alright? Do you need some water or an energy bar or --”

“Nono, that’s okay.” Wanda waved her off, her eyes on her knees. She adjusted the fabric of her pencil skirt so she wouldn’t have to look up. 

“You just went white as a sheet.” Oh, fuck it. She couldn’t resist: she looked up. Miss Romanova flashed her a concerned -- yes, that was an actual grin. “Got me a little worried for a second there.”

“I just --” Well, if she didn’t tell her now, she’d find out later. “I have some heavy anxiety,” Wanda explained haltingly. “It fluctuates in various situations -- um -- even I don’t really understand how it works the way it does? But I do take meds for it, it just…”

“Would conducting interviews be a problem for you?” asked Miss Romanova.

“Yeah,” Wanda said, relieved. “A big problem.”

“Okay. I’ll get Sam to do it then. Not an issue.” 

“Wow. Thanks.” 

“And the stories are still yours to write.” Miss Romanova squeezed her shoulder, making Wanda swallow very hard. “How are you doing?”

She nodded. “Feeling a little better. Thanks,” she added, remembering her manners. “Sorry, just got kind of --”

“You don’t have to apologize.” 

“I, um, think I can get up now, so if it’s alright with you…”

“Of course.” 

Wanda stood up a little unsteadily, resisting the urge to grimace as she realized she’d somehow sweat through her camisole.

“Thank you for looking these over,” she said. 

“You’re welcome. I look forward to seeing what you put out.” The cool professional was back. There were two quite different sides to Natasha Romanova, Wanda realized, but she couldn’t tell which one she felt more comfortable with. The Professional was a little too intimidating and the entity Wanda was beginning to think of as The Civilian was a little too easy to like… and, lo and behold, the latter was back, rifling through her purse. She slid several quarters across the pristine desk -- wine-colored nails against dirty silver. “Get yourself something from the snack machine, okay?”

“No, that’s okay --” Wanda protested immediately, but Miss Romanova didn’t take the coins back.

“It’s on me. You don’t have to pay me back or anything. Just write something that can knock my socks off.”

“Really, I’m okay, and, um, I don’t think that’s possible --”

“Get yourself some goddamn chips, Miss Maximoff. Oh,” she added, “and when I say I want you to write something to knock my socks off, the only response I want to hear is _challenge accepted_.” 

“Okay.” Her heart was hammering out of control as she took the quarters. Worse and worse, she was all-too aware of the heat rising to her face. “Thanks. And challenge accepted.”

Miss Romanova smiled. “There we go. Let’s not sell ourselves short, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Wanda managed to return her smile and headed for the door.

“I expect nothing but the best from you, Miss Maximoff,” Miss Romanova called. Wanda nodded. 

“Ma’am.”

Outside and at a reasonable distance from other people, Wanda leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She had things to do, dammit, like talking to Sharon and Sam about collaboration and interviews and the Kyoto Costume Institute, but _honestly_... 

She could not get that damn perfume out of her nose.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What color is your blouse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of the really Devil Wears Prada AU chapters. Also, a warning, I haven't vetted this one for grammar/spelling as much as I usually do, so just be aware of that.

“Holy 1960s, Batman.”

“Shut up, I love my lava lamp.” Wanda paused her typing for a moment to curled one hand protectively around the softly glowing lamp on the edge of her desk. Clint shook his head in mock defeat. 

“You were born in the wrong decade. You should have been a flower child with bell bottoms and long hair and LSD.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Nat wants us,” he added. “The thing’s today.”

Wanda wrinkled her nose. “Thing? What thing?”

“The thing, remember? Nat wanted us to come to her meeting today. Now close that laptop and follow me.” Wanda glanced with longing at her open Google Doc, the opening sentences of the underwear story laid out. Her fingers itched to keep going with it, but duty called, as ever… She slid her bare feet back into her shoes and stood.

*

“Remind me who T’Challa is again,” she hissed to Clint as they followed up Miss Romanova’s entourage into one of the conference rooms. Clint gave her a quick glance and lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if appealing for divine support.

“Only the richest fashion designer in the _entire freakin’ world,_ Wanda Maximoff,” he said in an undertone as they took their places with Bucky behind Miss Romanova. “Literally the heir to the throne of Wakanda?” Clint playfully tapped the side of Wanda’s head. “How’re we doing up there?” She batted his hand away. 

“Okay, okay. I get it. I’m uncultured.” 

“I should say so. And don’t let Nat hear that you didn’t know who he was. They’re old friends.”

"Does he have a surname or is it just T'Challa?" Wanda whispered to Clint after a moment of silence in the room.

"I think it's just T'Challa," Clint said. "He's like Cher, he doesn't need a last name."

At that moment the door opened and the Wakandan -- party? delegation? was that the right word? -- entered: several dark-skinned people in business suits bearing suitcases and a line of women in ivory silk dressing gowns. Wanda swore her mouth went dry. It shouldn’t have been possible for that many beautiful people to gather in one place at once. Hell, it shouldn’t have been legal.

What was in the water over there in Wakanda? 

One man detached himself from several suited aides and met Miss Romanova at the center of the room. They kissed cheeks, smiling like old friends.

“T’Challa.”

“Natasha. What a pleasure.”

Wanda leaned over to whisper in Clint’s ear. “Am I staring?” 

“Oh, I’m staring too, babe. It’s all good.”

“We can catch up over lunch,” their employer was saying. “Why don’t we get down to brass tacks and look at what you’ve got for me this season?” 

T’Challa smiled. “Fair enough. Monica? Let’s start with you.”

One of the women left where she and the others had been hanging against the wall. With an easy, practiced movement, she shrugged out of her dressing gown. 

Wanda’s eyes bugged. She’d never seen anything remotely like it outside of an Audrey Hepburn film. The gown clung like a second skin from breast to mid-thigh, then fanned out in a magnificent burst of black satin. She took a side-glance at Miss Romanova, who cocked her head to one side. 

“Pretty,” she said, half-smiling. “But don’t you worry that it’s not very original? Little black dresses are hardly new, are they? Although this one’s hardly little.”

“Show her, Monica.” 

Monica flashed T’Challa a wink and then, lifting her arms above her head like a ballerina, spun around. The skirt fanned out, revealing layer after layer of silver, white, and scarlet tulle. To Wanda’s surprise, Miss Romanova laughed out loud.

“Lovely. I tell you, T’Challa, you’re always a welcome breath of fresh air after D and G and all the others… Minimalism should have a made a comeback years ago.”

“With my help,” said T’Challa, “it’ll come back tomorrow.”

Miss Romanova laughed again and then crossed her arms, fixing the dress with an assessing stare. Wanda found herself pitying the model, but Monica didn’t seem at all bothered by the laser-intensity. After a moment, Miss Romanova spoke.

“It’s nearly perfect.”

“Uh-oh.” T’Challa grinned.

“Nearly. I think… Hm. Bucky, what do you think?”

Bucky took a step forward to stand beside her, nodded to T’Challa, and then turned his attention to the gown. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve designed any belts for it?” he said at last. “I think it needs something under the bust. Give the ensemble a little extra kick.”

“I _did_ , as a matter of fact.” T’Challa motioned to one of the aides behind him, who opened one suitcase and reverentially handed him several thin, black and silver strips of leather. “I thought you might like to see the barebones before dressing it up.” He handed her the belts. Miss Romanova took them eagerly and showed them to Bucky, who gave a low whistle.

“I love the diamond ones,” he said. 

“The spikes give them a nice edginess.” Miss Romanova played thoughtfully with the buckle of one. Wanda craned her neck to see over her shoulder. As if reading her mind, her employer turned. “Can you two see back there?”

“No,” said Clint. 

“Let’s show them the diamond ones. Oh --” Miss Romanova waved T’Challa over -- “Clint, you know. This is Wanda Maximoff, my new intern. Showing her the ropes.”

“A pleasure.” T’Challa took Wanda’s hand and kissed the backs of her fingers. He smelled like pine needles, which probably came from an aftershave that cost more than the Taj Mahal.

“You too,” she managed.

“I’ll be working here in New York for the next few months,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll collaborate.”

“Perhaps,” she said weakly.

“Let’s see these belts,” said Miss Romanova. She delicately held one up against the black satin of Monica’s ribcage. A pattern of circular diamonds winked like stars, reflecting points of light around the room. Tiny spikes alternated each diamond. “With some earrings to match the diamonds and evoke the spikes, I think you could make a killing come Fashion Week,” she said. 

“Agreed. I’ve been looking into statement jewelry.”

“Good choice. And the other?” 

Bucky handed her the second diamond belt and switched it with the first. Wanda blinked. The belts were exactly the same -- wait, no. These diamonds were square instead of round. 

“Hm.” Miss Romanova’s brow furrowed as she studied the overall effect. “I think it might be a little _too_ angular, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know,” said Bucky, “with the spikes, it does make it quite dramatic.”

“Yes, but you lose some of that wonderful Edith Head quality. I like the circles,” said Miss Romanova. “They give it more of a classical look.”

“And with the spikes,” Clint put in from beside Wanda, “it sort of marries traditional and contemporary. Buyers eat that shit up.”

“ _I_ think the squares are daring,” Bucky said. Something about the defensiveness of his tone made Wanda giggle. 

There was dead silence.

Suddenly realizing she’d committed a faux-pas, she quickly covered her mouth with her hand, but it was too late. The damage was done. Every pair of eyes were suddenly on her.

“Everything alright, Miss Maximoff?” Miss Romanova turned to her and cocked her head to one side. 

“It’s just…” Wanda trailed off.

“Go on.” They were all waiting expectantly. 

“It’s just… They’re the same belt.”

Silence. Clint was staring at her in a mix of horror and admiration. Bucky had his eyes closed, like he knew what was coming. But Miss Romanova was entirely impassive.

“Really.”

“I mean,” Wanda forced herself on, “those two belts are exactly the same. Nobody’s going to care what shape the diamonds are.” There was dead silence in the room. Miss Romanova stepped forward. Wanda could smell the Chanel No. 5. 

“Come with me,” she said. Wanda blinked.

“Excuse me?”

Miss Romanova wrapped a hand around her arm and gently but firmly steered her out the door and into the corridor. Wanda was aware of her heart beating faster. 

“Okay,” Miss Romanova said. “Now that we’ve got some privacy. What color is your blouse?”

Wanda stared. “Excuse me?”

“What color is your blouse?” Miss Romanova repeated calmly. 

“Um…” Was this a trick question? “Red?”

“That, Miss Maximoff, is your problem.” She smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You see, if you had the necessary experience, you would know that that blouse isn’t just red. It’s not orange enough to be rosso corsa and not dark enough to be oxblood. You’ll find that it is, in fact, carmine. Now,” she continued, in a tone Wanda remembered from several lecturers in college, “in 2014, Vivienne Westwood put out a line of carmine coats. If you spend long enough in the industry, you start seeing little patterns like that all over the place. You see, fashion is sort of like trickle-down economics,” she mused. “Decisions are made by a small percentage of elites, who then design products based on those decisions. And those products, through a series of complicated ploys and technicalities, slowly spiral their way down to the general public until they reach interns who wear lots of eyeliner and --” she caught Wanda’s hand and inspected it primly, “-- color their nails with Sharpie.” 

Wanda was quite sure that her cheeks were carmine by now. Miss Romanova closed Wanda’s hand delicately and patted it. “Every decision matters. Every detail counts.” She smiled at her. “I’m not angry with you. But you have to learn this stuff. T’Challa is pretty forgiving of rookie errors, especially for a designer of his calibre, but had it been, say, Loki Laufeyson, you’d be a smear on the wall right now. I can’t let my interns look unknowledgeable.”

Wanda nodded, trying to fight her desire to disappear. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“I bet it won’t,” said Miss Romanova. “Just try to be aware. You’re running with wolves now.” She reached over and tucked a strand of Wanda’s hair behind her ear. Her pulse roared in her ears. “Wouldn’t want you to get eaten. Want to go back in?” Wanda hesitated and then nodded. 

“Let’s go.”

T’Challa and the others were in murmured conversation when they reentered -- Bucky and Clint snapped up like soldiers when they saw Miss Romanova. As Wanda took her place again beside Clint, Miss Romanova walked to the model and cocked her head to one side, studying the dress with an appraising eye. 

“The round stones, I think,” she said at last. “Definitely the round stones.” 

Clint leaned over to Wanda and whispered, “How’re you doing ?”

_Hand reaching out, brushing her cheek as she tucks her hair back --_ she jerked herself back to earth with all the grace she possessed.

“Huh, what? Oh, yeah! Fine!”

Clint gave her an unreadable look. “Really? Wow. We usually have to break out the paint scraper and the mop when Nat _escorts someone out._ ” Wanda couldn’t tell if he was teasing her or not, any more than she could tell whether she was upset. The jab about her nails had hurt. So what if she couldn’t afford fucking luxury brand nail polish, she did what she could. And so what if she was still kind of stuck in a phase. Still… and she was trying very hard not to overanalyze this… it had been kind of, well… 

Fun? 

Was that the word? 

No. It had been mortifying. She was still blushing, she knew. But somehow...

“Maybe I’m just tough,” she murmured back. 

Miss Romanova glanced back at her and gave her a smile, like she’d somehow heard her. 

_Maybe I’m just fucked,_ Wanda thought as her heart exploded. 

*

She stayed late that evening, eager to get the underwear story completely outlined. Half the battle, she found, was getting the phrasing right: snappiness without sounding like a dick. And even though she was still waiting for some more in-depth information regarding knickers in the Victorian Era, she had the basics of what the story as a whole would look like. She leaned back in her chair and surveyed the Google Doc with an air of satisfaction. Behind her laptop screen, the red lava lamp ballooned gently. 

Clint had gone home an hour before -- Wanda wondered how the move was going. At their current rate, he and her brother would be engaged before she heard anything about it. 

Footsteps, softer than what one usually heard, sounded outside the office door. She craned her neck to see out just in time to catch Miss Romanova pausing by the office, both heels in her hand. Her purse was slung over one shoulder.

“Oh, hey,” she said. “Didn’t realize there was somebody still working.”

Wanda glanced at the clock on her laptop. 7:58. Shit. 

“Lost track of time.” She reached for her bag and began loading papers into it. “Sorry.”

“No, that’s okay.” Miss Romanova paused on the threshold. “May I step in?”

“Be my guest.” 

Miss Romanova sagged into Clint’s swivel chair. Her hair was coming down from its bun, red curls hanging around her neck. Wanda dragged her gaze away. _Close your program. Shut down your computer._

“Was I too rough on you earlier today?” Miss Romanova asked. Wanda got the impression that this had been weighing on her for a while.

“No, ma’am. It’s fine,” she said. 

“I feel like I was. You’re a newbie in the fashion world, I shouldn’t have bit your head off like that.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

Wanda met her eyes for a brief moment and then looked down at the floor. “Okay,” she said, “you could have avoided the jibe about my nails. But you did take me outside for it, which I appreciate.”

“Sorry.” Miss Romanova looked, to Wanda’s surprise, rather sheepish. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Ma’am, it’s fine.”

“There was no excuse. That was me being bitchy just for the sake thereof.”

“Seriously, it’s okay.” 

They looked at each other again and this time it was Miss Romanova who averted her eyes. 

“Nice lamp.” She pointed to the lava lamp. 

“Thanks. Clint hates it.”

“Yeah, well, Clint likes very few things in life that’s not dogs.” She laughed suddenly. “You know, every time I watch these things, I always imagine them making a noise like _balloomp, balloomp._ ” 

“Same, honestly.”

They watched the lamp for a while and then Miss Romanova added, “You know, I think it’s high time you started calling me Natasha. I call you Wanda, it’s only fair.”

“Natasha,” Wanda tried. She couldn’t help smiling a little as she said the name, any more than she could stop the little flutter in her chest and stomach. “That feels weird.”

“All my friends call me that.”

Silence. They watched the lava lamp some more. 

“I should get going --” Wanda stood, shouldering her bag, at the same moment that Miss Romanova -- or Natasha -- rose to her feet. They halted in front of each other by the door in a benevolent impasse. 

“You first.”

“No, you. It’s okay.”

“You’re my employer, you first.”

Natasha -- God, but that was weird -- gave her an odd smile. With her messy hair and her heels clutched to her chest, coat slung over one arm, she seemed almost human. The loss of several inches didn’t hurt either.

“You funny thing,” she murmured, almost more to herself than to Wanda. She headed out of the office, but paused to wait for Wanda. “Red’s a good color on you,” she added.

Wanda shot her a grin. “You mean carmine?” 

Her grin was returned with a little more teasing. “Sure.”

They took the elevator down together. The ride was spent mostly in silence, but Wanda allowed herself to take sneaking glances at the woman across from her. She was like something out of the 1950s, all big skirts and styled hair and perfect color coordination.

The bell chimed, the gleaming doors slid open, and Wanda stood back to let Natasha go first. It had been raining outside; puddles of water shone in the orange light of the street lamps.

Natasha leaned a little closer to her. “By the way,” she said. “Your nails look fine.”

Before Wanda could reply or even think of a way to make her face stop burning, Natasha had already pushed open the glass door and headed doggedly into the darkness. Wanda watched her go, skirting puddles in her bare feet, the traffic lights turning her yellow, red, and green.

Only when she was certain that Natasha’s car had pulled out of the parking lot did Wanda leave the building and head for home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda had a good imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Femslash February, everyone!
> 
> Yes, I promise you that this fic is still going. I wouldn't let it go for the world.

Natasha’s voice was a little hoarse, and it lent Wanda’s words an undeniably intimate, almost sensual tone.

“‘ _Gaultier, Gabbana, L and O: these are the names that glitter from our billboards, our shop windows, our magazines, like so many rhinestones. Yet who can say that they have purchased any of these brands for how they made them feel instead of money or bragging rights? The truth is that the runway has become a symbol of the disconnect that we have fostered between emotion and beauty -- an idea that would please Oscar Wilde, perhaps, but that perhaps holds concerning implications for us as a people. But not here. Here, Bouclier takes a moment to strip back the axiom of_ beauty for beauty’s sake _and appreciates the emotional significance held behind the clothes we wear and the jewelry we choose.’”_ Natasha put down the print-out and gave Wanda an open-mouthed look of astonishment. “Holy _shit_ , Wanda.”

Somehow, Wanda found the guts to crack half a smile. “That bad, huh?”

“Did you ever consider that you may be in the wrong business? No, don’t answer that, I’ve got you and I am _never_ letting you leave. Wanda, this is beautiful.”

Wanda’s cheeks and neck were warm. “Thanks.”

“Seriously. I’ve never heard of a fashion article winning a Pulitzer, but you just might do it, Wanda.” Natasha sat back in her chair. Her hair was teased around her face in a deep red cloud. Nude lips, bronze eye makeup. It was easy to see the former model in her employer. “How long have you been writing?”

“Professionally, or --”

“In general,” said Natasha. 

Wanda screwed her face up. “About forever?” she said. “I wrote short stories when I was a teenager. Kind of…” _Kind of offset everything else that was happening,_ she added silently. But Natasha didn’t need to know that. 

“Well, let me tell you, it shows. You wouldn’t happen to be writing the next Great American Novel or anything, would you?” She reached up to tuck some of her hair behind her ear, and Wanda noticed a dark scar, smaller than a penny and just as circular, on the inside of her wrist.

“Um, actually, I _am_ writing a book.” Wanda tore her gaze back up to her face. “It’s sort of a spy thriller, but where the Bond girl sort of takes the lead because the M16 is totally incompetent?”

“Well, goddamn, I’d read that,” said Natasha, leaning forward. “If you ever need a pair of eyes, I’d be more than happy to take a look at it. As a friend, not an employer.”

“Wow, um, I’ll bear that in mind --”

“Oh, and you really ought to talk to Sam,” Natasha added. “He’s got that book coming out at the end of this month, he could definitely hook you up with a publisher.”

“Really? You wouldn’t mind my using this place as leverage to get --”

“Wanda, dearest,” Natasha said, “ _everybody_ does it. Bouclier gives a resume a lot of spit and polish. You can go talk to Sam now, actually, he says he’s got the interviews started, and they’ve been going great.”

*

“So, you got the royal seal of approval, huh?” She and Sam were shuffling pages back and forth, looking at the interview data they’d gotten. Sharon had spent several hours doing nothing but transcribing audio into the packets that now littered both their desks. “That’s big.”

She blushed for the third or fourth time in forty-five minutes and highlighted another stretch of her current interview packet lime green, keeping her eyes low. “I guess so, yeah.”

“Don’t brush that off,” Sam told her seriously. “She’s got a nose for talent, that woman. Besides, I saw the intro, too. It’s great, Wanda. Seriously.”

“When did you see it?!”

“She showed me in the breakroom.”

“Oh.” Wanda tried to figure out what to do with that information and gave up. “You know --” She stopped. 

“What?”

“It’s just --” she put down her highlighter and dragged her fingers through her hair, wincing as several strands got caught in her rings -- “I can’t figure her out?”

Sam smiled, giving her a flash of white teeth. “Yeah, she’s like that. Tends to keep people at arm’s length.”

“No, it’s not that. She’s very friendly, I just don’t… I can’t make out her personality. She’s either an ice queen or your best friend.”

Sam nodded. “Again, she’s like that. You ask Bucky or Steve, and they’ll tell you the same thing. Or Clint. And he’s known her the longest out of all of us. By the way,” he added, “you’re coming to my thing at the end of the month, right?”

“Your thing.”

“The book party,” he said. “For my book. You’re coming, right?”

“Oh --” Wanda was momentarily taken aback. “I wasn’t -- oh -- I didn’t know if you wanted me there or not.”

“Of course I want you there!” He looked shocked by the idea. “Come on, you’re part of the team. It’s black-tie, by the way.”

“Black-tie?”

“Yeah, since Nat’s coming.” He must have seen her look of panic. “You know what black-tie is, right?”

“Right. Yes, of course.” She picked her highlighter back up. “We should keep going with this, right?”

*

“Help me, Pietro, you’re my only hope.”

“Look, you have _got_ to calm down,” Pietro said as he steered between the aisles and aisles of clothes. “This is supposed to be fun.”

“I’ve never shopped for clothes like this in my goddamn life! I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing!” she hissed. 

“So you go to me, of all people?”

“When we were sixteen, did we or did we not agree that we were going to be each other’s gay best friends?”

“ _Touché._ Here. Try this one.” Pietro pulled a dress off the rack. Baby blue, glittery, form-fitting. “Although, actually, no, don’t try this one.” He hung it back up and kept searching through the rack. 

“What was wrong with that one?”

“Light blue washes you out.”

“Do you ever wonder if maybe we ought to just switch jobs?” Wanda asked, standing back so he could keep going down the rack. “I could totally be a personal trainer.”

“You have anxiety, Wanda, and that job requires you to yell at people. Anyway, I can’t write for shit.” He turned and thrust an armful of dresses into her arms. “Try these.” Wanda twisted her neck to avoid a hanger to the face. “By the way, can I ask why you’re freaking out?” he added. Most of the dresses were silk, or at least something slippery, and so, avalanche-like, they suddenly slid out of Wanda’s arms to land in a red-orange-purple pile on the floor. 

“ _Goddamn it!”_ Several people turned to look in her direction. She closed her eyes, breathed in and out, and then scooped up the dresses. When she looked back up, Pietro was giving her a flat look of disbelief. “I’m not freaking out,” she said levelly and headed for the changing rooms at the back of the store.

Footsteps behind her, and then he’d caught up to her. Why, oh why did her brother have to be a runner.

“You have a crush, don’t you?”

“I do not have a crush, Pietro.”

“You most certainly do, Wanda Maximoff, because the last time you panicked overyour wardrobe like this, you were going to that party with that roommate of yours. You are a creature of habit. Tell me who it is?”

“No, because they don’t exist.”

“I can just ask Clint, you know, so you might as well tell me.”

She handed the dresses to the store employee on duty. “I’d love to, but there’s nothing to tell.”

“Is it your boss?”

“ _No._ ”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

The employee handed back the dresses, along with a number card. Wanda thanked him and headed to the women’s changing room. Pietro crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “I bet it’s your boss,” he said, grinning. “Wanda, you freaking lesbian.”

* 

In her tiny cubicle in the changing room, Wanda hung up her dresses and leaned her forehead against the mirror. 

_God fucking shit._

* 

“It’s really sexy,” Pietro said in the taxi they took back to her apartment. “You wear that, and _someone_ ’ll go home with you.”

“I’m not listening,” Wanda said, even though she, too, was pleased with her choice. The hem of the red beaded skirt just poked out of the plastic bag.

“If she doesn’t at least take notice of you, she’s not worth it.”

“I can’t think who you mean, Pietro.”

“You’re going to set the room on fire.” 

Wanda reached into her purse and pulled out her iPod. “You see these?” She held up her earphones. “These are going in, like, now.”

He laughed and ruffled her hair. 

*

Wanda might have liked to do more work on her articles -- the Kyoto Costume Institute had been more than willing to send reference images of all the underwear they had on hand, and she had a lot of research to do -- but much of her time was taken up with helping in getting the monthly issue done. In Wanda’s case, this mostly meant grammar checking her coworkers (“Steve, I’m almost certain that’s not what a semicolon does,”) and giving Sharon her thoughts on the layout (“Maybe if you can move the paratroopers further forward so it doesn’t look like we’re shoving them out?”). She saw very little of Natasha, who was mostly drowning in meetings or, if she was in, sitting in her office and making phone calls. Wanda had passed by her open door one day and was astonished and a touch flustered when Natasha gave her a wave of the fingers and a quick smile. 

“Yes, that’s right,” she said to whoever was on the other line. “I’ll tell you, I’m more than willing to give you coverage in our next issue, but you have to understand that…”

She had one earring out, like a vintage secretary. Wanda ducked her head and kept going. 

*

When she returned from her latest errand, she found what appeared to be the entire staff gathered in the copy room. 

“What’s going on?” she asked Bucky, standing on tiptoe to see over everyone else’s head.

“It’s almost done printing,” he said. Sam was standing in front of the copy machine, hands outstretched like a midwife about to catch a baby. 

“One page left to go…” he was saying, “aaaaand, _yes!”_

A cheer went up as the final page slotted onto the others. Sam held the stack aloft. “Behold the October edition!” Wanda clapped along with the rest. It felt good to have helped produce something. And yet…

She leaned over to Steve. “I thought the deadline was tomorrow night. Are we ahead of schedule?”

“No one told you?” he asked. “Oh, well, we get the issue done the day before. Then someone delivers it to Miss Romanova, she checks it over, and we have the last day to do last minute repairs. Speaking of which: how’d you like to run it over to her?”

Wanda coughed. “I’m sorry, what?”

“She had a meeting that ran overtime and she got a headache, so she went on home,” Steve explained. “You got her address?”

“Um --”

But Steve was already turning to the rest of the group. “Hey, Buck, get Wanda her address, she’s going to take the edition over!” To her horror, the entire staff looked over at her and clapped.

Natasha’s address was produced, the issue was loaded into page protectors which were in turn loaded into a sleek black binder, and Wanda found herself taking a taxi to Park Avenue, where Natasha apparently had a penthouse. Of course she did.

She rang the doorbell and shifted from foot to foot, feeling a little like a student summoned to the principal’s office. The binder was heavy under her arm. She reached out to ring again, but then there were faint footsteps, and Natasha herself opened the door. 

Wanda tried really hard not to stare. 

She’d dressed it down considerably: her hair was loose, and she was wearing a black silk robe tied tightly around her waist, so it was easy to see the swell of her breasts under the fabric. No makeup, and she was still stunning. 

Fuck.

“Hello there,” she said. 

Wanda tried to make her tongue work. “Um -- I’ve brought the -- um -- the binder. I mean, the edition. The issue.” She held up the binder. Natasha smiled and took it from her. 

“Thank you very much, Wanda.” 

She expected to be sent off, but instead, Natasha opened up the binder and began leafing through. She licked her finger before turning each page. She smiled again. “Women paratroopers, page three. That’s what I like to see.” Her sleeve rode up as she scratched the back of her neck, balancing the binder in her other hand, and once again, Wanda glimpsed the strange, circular scar on her arm. 

“Nat, what’s going on?”

Natasha looked further into the apartment. “Just getting the issue from Wanda!” She looked back at Wanda herself, who felt heat rising into her cheeks. “Thanks again.”

“Yes, of course.” The other voice had sounded like Sharon. Wanda remembered that she hadn’t noticed her in the copy room with everyone else. She nodded and stepped back. Natasha gave her a wave and closed the door, cutting her off from whatever was going on inside. And Wanda had a good imagination.

 *

She went home, feeling like a balloon that had been cut loose and was now floating up, up, up, up. That kind of melancholy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody dislikes you, Wanda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Femslash February Part Two!
> 
> This chapter went slightly Amélie Poulain on me, but oh well. We're just going to roll with it.

Mostly to keep herself sane, Wanda made herself an ultimatum: she was going to keep her eyes to herself, she was going to focus on writing two kickass articles for an equally kickass magazine, and she was going not repeat _not_ going to distract herself by thinking about her employer’s relationship with her fellow employee. 

Somehow, she’d managed to completely forget about it. Between the attention Natasha had been giving her and her own fledgling feelings (Pietro was right, she was _such_ a sad little queer), the presence of Sharon in Natasha’s life had gone by the wayside. But Wanda refused to be a homewrecker. She was not going to be that girl. If they were happy, she was happy. Besides, she was just an intern; she had no right to expect any kind of emotional let alone carnal recognition from her _boss_ of all people. 

She was fine. She was absolutely fine. 

“You okay?” 

She looked up from where she was pushing a forkful of lettuce and onion drenched in ranch around her plastic salad container and saw Sharon Carter, of all people, standing in the doorway of her cubicle.

“Yeah,” she said. 

“Mind if I pop in for a second?”

“Um --” Wanda thought about protesting that she was working, but with her chair pushed back, Pinterest displayed clearly on her computer screen, and The 1975 blasting on her Spotify, she decided not to try it -- “yeah, sure.” She put Spotify on pause and rolled her shoulders back as Sharon ducked inside.

“I like the lamp.” She nodded to Wanda’s lava lamp and cleared one end of Clint’s desk to sit down. Clint himself was on an errand. 

“Thanks.”

“So, I read the opening for your article,” Sharon said. 

“Nat show it to you?” Wanda couldn’t have stopped herself for the world. Sharon nodded with a flawless poker face. 

“Yeah. You write like my aunt does. Did.”

“That good or bad?” asked Wanda warily.

“That is a compliment I’ve only given one other person in my life,” Sharon said. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I’ll… bear that in mind,” Wanda said, surprised. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this hadn’t been it. “Um, if you don’t mind my asking…” Sharon cocked a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “… why are you here.”

“Well…” Sharon straightened her back. “First of all, I wanted to tell you good job. Second of all, I wanted to know if you were doing okay.”

“Yeah?” Wanda said. She didn’t sound entirely certain. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sharon shrugged. “You’ve just seemed kind of reserved in the last week or so. I mean, more than usual.”

Looking down at her half-eaten salad, Wanda remembered the day after she’d taken the magazine to Natasha’s place. Natasha had stood out in the center of the offices after lunch and called everybody out. She had the binder under her arm. 

_“I read over your work,”_ she said once they’d gathered in a circle around her, her face entirely impassive. _“And…”_ A slow grin spread over her face. _“Well done, yet again. It’s a wrap. No more work today, you’ve earned it.”_

There was a chorus of cheers and applause. Bucky broke out a bottle of champagne and some glasses. Clint passed her one. _“Drink up,”_ he said, _“it’s not every day you have an excuse to get tipsy at the workplace.”_

She gave him a tight smile and knocked it back. It was pink -- Jesus, how loaded were they, exactly? -- and bubbled on the way down. 

_“Hey!”_ That was Steve, coming over to give her a bear hug, as only he could do it, carefully balancing his own champagne glass in one hand. _“Come on, it’s a party, Wanda! You’re allowed to smile.”_

She gave another smile that was only slightly looser than the one previously. Over Steve’s shoulder, she saw Natasha talking to Sharon and Sam. Her hair looked brighter than usual against her thick turquoise sweater dress. She caught her eye and dropped her gaze. 

“Yeah, I know,” Wanda said, resetting herself back in the present. “Bit depressed. Nothing I can’t handle, though.”

Sharon gave her a slightly concerned look. “Yeah, well. If you ever want to talk, you know, our doors are always open. We think of you as a friend. And, you know, we’d like to think that you think the same of us.”

“Thank you,” Wanda said, a touch stunned. “Yeah, um. It’s really not that big a deal…”

Sharon slipped off the desk and paused on her way out to squeeze her shoulder. “The offer’s open anyway,” she said. She gave Wanda a small smile that, to her, looked a little knowing and not a little pitying. “It can be good to rant, you know.”

*

She went home the way she had been for the last few weeks: emotionally exhausted and dying to eat something decadent, all the while knowing that she had to stay her current size if she wanted to fit into her dress for the party at the end of the month (she was trying hard not to think about how that would go; she predicted a long evening of leaning against the wall and speaking when spoken to). 

She dug into her purse for her keys to unlock her door and dropped them. With a sigh, she bent down to pick them up, and her head bumped into the doorknob. She dropped her keys again with a curse, snatched them up, and straightened up, rubbing her forehead ruefully. Someone was really testing her.

There was a cough behind her. She turned.

It was her neighbor Vision, a confirmed bachelor who taught English and I.T at some high school in the area. Allegedly, his name was either Jonas or Victor, but after he fixed _and improved_ the building’s security system in under five minutes, he was henceforth referred to as ‘The Vision.’ He was in his late forties but dressed like he was ninety. Wanda occasionally came over for dinner or to discuss her book, of which Vision was essentially her unofficial editor.

He was standing in the open doorway of his own apartment. “All right, Wanda?” 

“Um, yeah,” Wanda said, praying that she didn’t have a red mark on her forehead. “Yeah, just. Um. Rough day.”

He jerked his head in the direction of the apartment. “Want to have a chat? You look like you could use a brew.”

“I just kind of want to go, I don’t know, stew in my own juices for a while,” she said, remembering too late that saying that sort of thing around Vision would just make him insist. 

“Really, I insist,” he said. “How do you feel about Earl Gray?”

She gave him a weak smile, put her keys back in her purse, and followed him inside his apartment.

* 

“… so basically, I feel like a fish out of water. And, if I’m going to continue the aquatic metaphor, I may have just fallen for a barracuda?”

Vision nodded to himself, his own mug of tea steaming in his hands. He wet his lips and finally said, “Nobody dislikes you, Wanda.”

She took a sip of her tea and pretended it wasn’t as bitter as it was. She’d already put in three spoonfuls of sugar, and she didn’t want him to think she was a weakling.

“I know,” she said. “I just… I kind of hate how the universe seems to conspire against me every time I get a crush?”

“Dare I ask who this individual is?”

“Trust me, she’s, um, way out of my league. There’s no point.” 

“Someone you work with, I assume.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Vision’s mug clunked onto the coaster on the kitchen table. He steepled his fingers together. “You’re certain that there’s no chance?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” She rubbed at her temples. “You know, wish I could, like, switch my feelings off for once? I _always_ have the worst timing!”

“Well. Unfortunately, switching off your feelings is an impossibility,” Vision said evenly. “And, if I may be so bold, I think that you’re overlooking one person here.” She gave him an uncertain look. “You,” he said. 

“Me,” she repeated flatly. 

“This young lady,” he said, “do you talk to her often?”

“Fairly often, I guess? I don’t see how --”

“Then talk to her more. Find excuses. Show her those articles you’re working on, ask her her thoughts. You can’t accomplish a seduction successfully if you never speak to her, Wanda.”

Wanda sat bolt upright in her chair. “Hang on -- who said anything about a seduction?”

Vision was maddeningly calm where he sat in his chair. “That or just tell her how you feel, come what may.”

“I have anxiety, Vis, I can’t do either of those things!”

“Yes,” he said regretfully, “I’m afraid matters of the heart tend _not_ to be easy for people like us. And don’t misunderstand me, I don’t mean you have to wear pretty underwear and make innuendos -- unless, of course, the fancy takes you that way -- _but,_ a little something never hurts. And perhaps she has similar feelings and is doing exactly what you’re doing right now.” 

Wanda tried to imagine Natasha heart-dumping to someone (perhaps Steve?), but her brain short-circuited. 

“I doubt that,” she said. “She’s kind of an enigma.”

“Nothing is ever entirely outside the realm of possibility,” Vision said. “Perhaps all she needs is a nudge in the right direction.” He gave her a little smile. “Wear something pretty tomorrow,” he suggested. 

“You think that’ll magically make everything work out?” she said skeptically.

“It certainly can’t hurt,” he said. “After all, what have you got to lose?”

_Just my job,_ she thought. 

*

Back in her own apartment, she went through her closet and took inventory of her best items of clothing: mostly big sweaters and short, patterned dresses. A few lace rompers. Remembering Vision’s remark earlier, she also went through her underwear drawers and found her prettiest underwear. 

Tucked at the back of her closet was the dress she’d bought for the party at the end of the month -- which was Saturday, fuck. Just two short days away. She pulled it off the hanger and held up to herself in the mirror. 

It was a _good_ dress -- even she, with the little fashion know-how she possessed, had to admit that. Candy red, strapless, bodice beaded and heart-shaped. The tulle skirt was wider than she usually went for and stopped mid-calf. The back was lower than she was used to, as well; she was going to have to work some makeup magic to hide the scar near the center of her back, but that wouldn’t be too difficult. Should she put her hair up or leave it loose? Something fluttered in her chest, and after a moment, Wanda recognized it as the ghost of excitement. 

*

She put her hair up the next day, wore one of her other dresses (short, gray, long-sleeved, neckline just low enough that _someone_ might take notice), and actually put on more than just eye makeup. Granted, it was only faintly tinted gloss, but still. Wanda felt godly.

“You got a date after this?” Clint asked as she sat down behind her computer and switched on her lava lamp.

“Nope,” she said. “Just figured I ought to dress it up a little. This being a fashion magazine and all.” 

“… right,” he said. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said after a while.

“Oh, I’m going to look at you like that.”

“How are you and Pietro.”

“Fine. He goes running at four AM and it’s intolerable but fine.”

“Tell him he needs to keep me updated. I’m his sister and I have to find out how he’s doing from his boyfriend.”

_“Whoa.”_

She and Clint looked up to see Natasha standing in the doorway of the office. To Wanda’s horror, she was looking right at her.

“Careful you don’t set the chair on fire, Wanda,” she said. 

“Ma’am?”

Natasha half-smiled. “Cute dress,” she said. “Clint, can I steal you for a second? The L in L &O tried to fuck us over again overnight.”

“So what else is new,” Clint muttered. He rose and followed her down the hall, pausing only to give Wanda a wink.

She opened Word on her laptop and smiled to herself. 

*

Compliments rained down on Wanda’s head for the rest of the day, including a wolf whistle from Bucky. She gave him an unimpressed look in response.

“Is Steve okay with you doing that?”

“I mean it entirely platonically,” he said. “You look great.”

“Is this really so different from how I normally dress?” she asked. Bucky cocked his head to the side, taking in her outfit as a whole.

“It’s the hair,” he said. “You’ve got this _je ne sais quoi.”_

“Was it that bad before?”

“No!” Bucky said quickly. “But you look good. And you’ve still got those rings. Wanda’s still in there. That’s good.”

She half-smiled, reflexively covering up her hands. 

Sharon passed by. “Cute dress, Wanda.” 

“Oh, thanks.” She wasn’t prepared to get a compliment from her, too. Sharon gave her an easy smile.

“Totally. Got a date?”

“Nope. Just felt like playing dress-up.”

“You walk around like that,” Sharon said, “and you just might get one.” She gave her a grin and kept going. Not for the first time, Wanda wondered why Sharon had to be so cute in that pert, strawberry ice cream kind of way. In comparison, she felt like a goth playing office girl.

Then she wondered what the hell she was doing. 

Natasha was clearly entangled with Sharon in multiple senses. Who was she to try elbowing her way in like this? She wished she had told Vision that the girl -- woman -- in question was off the market.

“You okay?” Bucky asked. “You looked kind of sad for a second.”

“Fine,” she said too-brightly and headed back to her office.

*

_Okay,_ she thought half an hour later while trying to explain corset-lacing in layman’s terms. _Keep dressing like this. You like how it feels, you like feeling like a princess, so keep doing it. There’s no reason to stop that part._

_Just keep your eyes off what you can’t have._

*

She didn’t see Natasha for the rest of the day and went home in a thoughtful mood. 

*

The next day dawned rainy and unseasonably cool. Wanda put on a deep blue sweater dress and boots, left her hair down, and grabbed her umbrella. On her way downstairs, she ran into Vision, who was heading out of his own apartment.

“You look very nice today, Wanda,” he said. 

She couldn’t help giving him a slight smile. “Thank you.” She’d stuffed several pairs of earrings into her purse to choose from in the cab to work and was a little excited about it.

*

“Hey, everybody,” Sam called from the center of the offices. “Don’t forget, the publishing party is tomorrow night at seven! It’s black-tie, and for the love of God, please be there so I don’t have to drink all that booze on my own.”

There was a murmur of laughter. 

“You going?” Wanda jumped to find Natasha herself standing next to her. 

“Um, yeah,” she said. “Are you?”

Natasha gave her a smile that was, beneath the lipstick, quite genuine. “Sam’s a close friend,” she said. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t go to his book launch? Those are nice boots, by the way,” she said, glancing downward. 

Wanda flushed. “Thanks. I like your necklace. Although, for what it’s worth,” she added, “everything you wear is nice.” 

She immediately closed and prepared for death, convinced that she’d said too much -- some kind of Daisy Buchanan, _you always look so cool_ type of deal. But Natasha just gave her another smile. 

“Much appreciated.”

“I mean, I don’t know anything about fashion so my opinion doesn’t really count,” Wanda went on, “but, you know.” _Stop talking, stop talking, go fling yourself out the window so you don’t have to deal with this…_

“Actually, I think that that makes your opinion count even more,” Natasha said. “Better get to work,” she said. “Big day, and I want to see at least a page of that underwear article before you leave tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Natasha.”

“Natasha.”

*

A few hours later, Sam poked his head inside the cubicle. “You’re coming to my thing, right?” he said.

“Yes, I’m coming. I bought a dress for it, you bet I’m coming,” Wanda said.

“You’d better be, Wanda Maximoff. You’re part of the team. Hey, by the way --” she looked back up from her screen -- “Nat mentioned you’re writing a book. Love to take a look at it at some point, if you like.”

“Oh God, it’s barely ready for human consumption.”

“Yeah, well, if you want the honest truth, mine isn’t, either.” He smiled. “People have to read it sometime, Wanda.”

She saluted him and went back to the underwear article. 

*

Rain pounded on the roof, and the first portion of the article was printer-warm in Wanda’s hand as she headed down the tiny corridor to Natasha’s office. The others had gone home already; once she delivered the first two pages (why not go above and beyond, after all) to Natasha, she’d be on her way home, too, ready to enjoy her days off and mentally prepare herself for the party tomorrow night.

Natasha was packing up her things when Wanda got there.

“Aha, there she is,” she said. “Didn’t think you’d ignore a deadline.” Wanda handed her the pages, and she flipped through. “I look forward to reading it at home.”

“You really do that?”

“Read things at home? All the time. It’s the only way I can keep up with everything.” She put the article in a folder and put it in her leather briefcase. “Why?”

Wanda bit her lip and said nothing. There was just something a little sensual about thinking of Natasha reading her work outside of the office. _Stop that, stop that…_

“You’ve been behaving a little different lately,” she added. “Everything okay?”

“Yes!” Wanda said, a little exasperated. “Why does everyone think something’s going on with me?”

“Probably because you’re very easy to read,” Natasha said. Her eyes lingered on her a fraction of a second longer than they needed to. Feeling her heart begin to race, Wanda cleared her throat and looked away.

“If that’s all you wanted, I’ll get my stuff, then?”

“Sure. Walk out with me, I could use the company.” 

Internally screaming, Wanda collected her things and met her in the hallway outside what she’d grown to think of as HQ. Natasha was looking around with a strange look in her eye.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. It’s just a little weird sometimes to stand in something you built on your own and didn’t ever expect to.”

Wanda wasn’t sure how to respond. “Yeah, I guess that it would be.” 

They stood there in silence for a while. Wanda chanced a look at her shoes -- violet heels that looked possibly like Dolce and Gabbana, see, she was learning -- and slowly let it move upwards to her face. 

Natasha was watching her too. Wanda felt a tremor of dizziness go through her, but she didn’t look away.

“A couple weeks ago,” Wanda began, “I noticed you had this scar on your arm?”

“And you remembered that?” 

Wanda blushed. “I -- I just have a good memory for stuff like that --”

“That’s okay,” Natasha said easily. “Yeah, I do. What about it?”

“I just wondered about it. That’s all.”

Natasha jerked her head. “Elevator?” 

“Oh, right.”

Once they were heading downwards -- Natasha leaning casually against the bar, and Wanda barely able to function -- she spoke.

“It’s old,” she said. “Foster care was a bitch.”

Wanda’s gaze flew up to hers in surprise. She would never have guessed… Several questions bubbled up in her mind, but she kept them to herself and just said:

“Know the feeling.”

There was a little flicker of recognition, understanding in Natasha’s eyes. 

The elevator bell rang, and the doors slid open. Natasha held out a hand. “After you.”

Wanda stepped out and waited for the other woman. “I didn’t realize,” she said. 

“Neither did I.” Natasha gave her a lopsided smile. “Shitty system, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Vision’s voice suddenly echoed in her head. _Or, just tell her how you feel, come what may._

“Listen, Natasha?” she said. Her voice was far more high-pitched and delicate than she’d expected. “Um --” Her breath was speeding up. Now or never. “I -- um -- actually, fuck it.”

Heart pounding, she stepped closer, threaded a hand through Natasha’s hair, and kissed her. 

It lasted only a second, but the damage was done. Horrified, Wanda didn’t wait to analyze Natasha’s expression, but turned and fled into the rain.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t understand,” she said. “I kissed her. I kissed her. That means I can never look at her again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait. Writing this chapter was like pulling teeth for some reason.

“No, no, no, no, no, no —”

There was a clattering sound from her kitchenette, the sound of Vision making tea. When he called to her, he sounded weary. He’d been trying to talk sense to her for over an hour.

“You did absolutely nothing wrong, Wanda —”

“You don’t understand!” Wanda insisted. “I just _went_ for it!” 

“And that’s good!” Vision walked slowly into the living room, laden down with a tray bearing two mugs of tea and a plate of cookies. “You took initiative, and there’s nothing to be ashamed of in that.”

Wanda looked up at him from where she was curled up on the couch in her den. “You don’t understand,” she said. “I kissed her. I _kissed_ her. That means I can _never look at her again._ ” She looked at the clock on the wall. 7:45. Sam’s party would be in full swing in another quarter of an hour. No way she could go now. 

“And did she say anything?”

She shook her head miserably and hugged one of the throw pillows to her chest. “She just kind of stood there. And then I ran away.” A fresh wave of anxiety washed through her belly, making her guts tighten up. She shivered, groaned, and buried her head in her hands. Across from her, Vision sat down in the armchair and held out one of the mugs. 

“Wanda, drink your tea. It’s getting cold.”

Without looking up at him, she held out a hand and accepted the mug. “I can’t do this,” she said.

“Frankly, Wanda, I think they’ll wonder more at your absence than they will at your presence.”

She shook her head adamantly. “I’m not going. I _can’t_ go.”

“And not wear that dress you told me about?” He sounded maddeningly calm. How could she possibly make him understand how mortifying the mere concept of attending the party was?

“It’s just — she’s going to know — and _I’m_ going to know — and that’s just not a situation I want to have to endure.” To her horror, she was beginning to tear up. She covered her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. “God, I’m sorry.”

“Wanda.” Vision stood up and sat down next to her. “Now — I don’t pretend to really understand what you’re going through since empathy isn’t my strong suit, but I do understand anxiety. You have avoidant tendencies?”

Wanda pressed her lips together and nodded, not saying anything.

“So do I,” he said. “And if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that avoiding events like this just lead to more regret down the road.”

Wanda opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment, there was a knock on the door. She buried her head in her hands. Vision stood up, squeezing her shoulder. “I’ll get it.”

She heard his footsteps move away, the creak of the door, and then a low murmur of voices. Wanda looked up in horror to see Clint and her brother striding inside. They were both dressed in suits; she remembered vaguely him mentioning that Pietro would be his plus-one. If she’d had the energy, she would have thrown them all out. As it was…

“What the hell are you all doing here?” She looked over at Vision suspiciously. “You didn’t somehow manage to orchestrate this, did you?”

“Blame him.” Clint jerked his head at Pietro as he marched over to where she was sitting. “He figured you’d be doing something like this.” She buried her head in her hands again, now fully regretting having ever told her brother about the kiss. He sat down next to her. 

“Hey,” he said, “come on. I promise this isn’t the end of the world. I _promise,”_ he repeated as Wanda burst into fresh tears and buried her head in his shoulder like old times. He wrapped his arms around her and rocked her back and forth gently. On her other side, Clint sat down and put a hand on her shoulder. 

“Listen, Wanda, I promise that if you go tonight, you are not going to regret it. The earth will not crack open and swallow you up, the sun will rise…”

“Everybody kisses someone at some point in some capacity,” Pietro reassured her. “It’s okay.”

Vision spoke from where he was calmly straightening up the books on her shelf. “And I’m sure your friend Sam would like to see you there.”

“Exactly,” Clint said. “And there’s going to be a bunch of people there. You can just melt into the background.”

At that moment, there was another knock on the door. Wordlessly, Vision left the bookshelves to answer. “Oh, good,” Clint added. “That’ll probably be Sharon. I asked her to drop by.”

“You _what?!”_ Wanda stared at him with wide eyes. 

“Hello!” She looked up to see Sharon drifting around the corner in a floaty powder blue evening gown. Her skirt had two slits that revealed her long legs and her sparkling silver heels. Diamonds glittered at her earlobes. Wanda was suddenly even more aware of how she looked in her pajama bottoms and her oversized flannel shirt. 

“Clint thought that you might want a little help getting ready, so he asked me to drop by, if that’s okay,’ she said with a flash of white teeth. “Why don’t you show me to your room?”

Wanda glanced at Clint uncertainly. “Does she… know?”

He squeezed her shoulder again. “Why don’t you go with her?” he suggested. She looked back at Sharon, who gave her an encouraging smile. 

“O- _kay,”_ she said, unconvinced. “Okay, let’s go.”

*

Sharon looked almost comically out of place in her room; Wanda felt certain that she was looking over her art prints, her paisley bedspread, and the beaded curtain that covered the window alcove with disdain — or at least a fair amount of condescension. But she just gave her another smile and said, “Why don’t you show me your dress to start?” She put down her purse on Wanda’s bed. “I brought a few goodies, by the way,” she added as Wanda rummaged through her closet to find the dress. She’d tucked it at the far back the night before, not liking the feeling it gave her when she looked at it. 

She unearthed it and was both surprised and gratified when Sharon clapped her hands together in genuine delight.

“Oh my God, Wanda, that’s gorgeous! You go change, and I’ll get set up over here. Don’t worry,” she added, “I’ll keep my back turned.”

Not really knowing what to say, Wanda went to the farthest corner and quickly slipped out of her clothes and shimmied into the dress. She hadn’t really worn it since she’d first tried it on at the mall — mostly out of some primal terror that she’d somehow jinx herself. Now she remembered why she’d chosen it in the first place. She liked how it hugged her breasts and her torso and how the tulle in the skirt brushed her legs when she walked, like a 1950s circle skirt. 

“Okay,” she said, pushing her hair back. Sharon turned and beamed. 

“You’re like a Disney princess!” she exclaimed. “Want me to do your hair?”

Wanda allowed herself to be led to the bed. Evidently, Sharon’s idea of _a few goodies_ amounted to several travel-sized bottles of hair gel, hairspray, and volume mousse, four cards of hair bands, a makeup bag that appeared to contain nothing but jewelry, a eyeshadow compact, several sticks of concealer, five lipsticks, and what looked to be roughly four hundred and eighty three hairpins. That was her problem with Sharon: not only did she stand in the way of Wanda getting with the woman she wanted, but she also compounded the insult by being a genuinely endearing person. 

As Sharon sat behind her on the bed and worked on her hair, Wanda cleared her throat.

“Listen,” she began, “I don’t know how much you know or anything, and I guess this must seem like a kind of odd question, but… do you hate me?”

Sharon paused in twisting part of her hair around. “No,” she said, sounding a little confused. “No, I don’t hate you.”

“I swear, I’m not trying to — I don’t know — elbow into whatever you’ve got with Nat —”

“Listen.” Sharon tucked a pin into her hair and sat down properly beside her. “I know what you’re trying to say, and I think there’s something you ought to know.”

“Okay?” Wanda braced herself.

“Nat and I are involved, yeah, but it’s not like you think,” Sharon said. “I’m aro. It’s not —” She interrupted herself. “We have sex, but that’s it. It’s casual. So, if you want to elbow in there,” she continued, “you go on and do it. I’m not going to stop you.”

“But… does she… she doesn’t think about me like that, does she?”

Sharon sighed in exasperation. “Don’t sell yourself short, Wanda. You’re super cute. Don’t think she hasn’t noticed.” She reached for her makeup bag and rifled through it for a few moments before pulling free a gold metal hair clip that was decorated with little ornate roses with pearls in their centers. “What do you think of this?”

“Pretty,” Wanda said vaguely. She was still trying to make sense of everything she’d just heard. Sharon leaned over to fix it into her hair. 

“To be completely honest,” she continued, “I think she’s a little bit confused by you. Well — not by you, so much as how you make her feel. But trust me, Nat’s not going to run away from that. She’s going to want to get closer, try to figure things out.” 

“Oh,” Wanda said faintly. Sharon stood up on the bed, hiked her skirts up around her knees, and leaped neatly onto the carpet like a cat. Then she stood back to observe her handiwork. 

“Ooh,” she said. “That’s hot.” She grabbed the makeup mirror off Wanda’s vanity and handed it to her so she could see. She’d done a chignon, messy enough to look unstudied and effortless, but still dressed up by the gold hair clip. “What d’you think?”

Wanda nodded. “I really like it. Thanks.” She hesitated. “You’re _sure_ you don’t mind —”

“Of course not!” Sharon said. “You go for it. Oh, and just a warning?” Wanda looked up at her in trepidation. Sharon dropped her tone by several notches. “She’s kind of a biter.” She laughed and squeezed her shoulder as Wanda choked. “Let’s do your makeup!”

 *

A wild six minutes later, she and Sharon emerged from the bedroom to find the three men still sitting in the den, chatting animatedly. 

“Thank God,” Clint said, rising when he spotted them coming. “We were about to send out the search — _hey,_ look at you!” This last was directed at Wanda, who’d finally come properly into the light. She gave them an impromptu twirl, liking how the lamplight gleamed on her heels. Sharon had worked some dark magic with one of her many concealers, and now it was barely noticeable that she’d spent the better portion of the day crying. 

Pietro gave her a high-five. “How’re you feeling?” he asked, and Wanda detected a certain amount of worry in his voice.

“Honestly? Petrified.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “Well, at least you look great, so even if you feel like you’re dying, nobody will ever know.” 

“Wanda?” Vision spoke from where he’d been talking to Sharon. “It’s nearly eight, so I’d suggest you, Mr. Barton, Mr. Maximoff, and Miss Carter should probably be getting on…”

Clint glanced at his watch. “Absolutely right.” He smoothed his hair back. “Let’s go give Sam his hour of glory.”

*

The inside of the country club that had been rented out for the party seemed exactly like the sort of place that Sam would go for: wood-paneled walls, crystal chandeliers, a glossy, gleaming dance floor. 

As she’d feared, nearly everybody else was there when she, Pietro, Clint, and Sharon arrived. Sam, looking splendid in a bright pink moiré silk jacket that looked like it cost as much as the club, gave them all tight hugs that smelled of peppery aftershave. Wanda looked around for people she knew. It was a small group that seemed to be mostly comprised of Sam’s friends outside of work, family members, and then there, in the far left corner, were Steve and Bucky in tuxedos speaking to — 

— Wanda fought to get her heart back under control.

It was Natasha, of course, wearing something in black satin with a black lace overlay, her red hair swept off her neck into an elaborate coiffure. Pearls gleamed at her earlobes, and her bodice plunged just low enough that Wanda imagined everyone within a twelve-foot radius probably had a bad case of dry mouth.

She fixed her attention firmly back on Sam. “Congratulations.” She gave him another hug. “You’ll have to tell me your secret to publishing.”

“Well, you and I are working in very different genres,” he said. “I’m in military memoirs. That always sells.”

“I preordered it on Amazon,” she told him. “Can’t wait.”

“Sure you don’t want to take advantage of the autographed galley? There’re still a few slots left.”

“If I want my copy autographed, I can just walk across the hall to your office and get it done.”

He laughed and had just enough time to get her a flute of champagne before he was distracted by another guest. When she glanced back in the direction of Natasha, she saw that Clint was introducing Pietro to her. There was a great deal of laughter. She took a sip of her drink and tried not to look too wistful. 

Sharon materialized at her side. “Come on!” She winked and took Wanda’s arm. “Don’t be shy.”

Before Wanda could say anything, she was being led over to the party.

But she hadn’t reckoned with how overwhelming it was to be in such proximity to her again — Wanda found it difficult to so much as look at her. If she did, she mentally relived every second of that gut-clenching, awful, blissful moment where she’d put her hands in her hair and felt her breath on her face… 

“What a dress!” Natasha was saying. Wanda risked a glance up at her. Her lipstick was a dark, dangerous red. “Now, let me see, is that shade carmine or crimson?” She was grinning, eyes sparkling. If she’d thought anything of what had happened yesterday, she didn’t seem to show it. “

Wanda cleared her throat and summoned a smile of her own to her lips. “Scarlet, actually.”

“Well, if you were a model, you’d be bringing scarlet back right about now.” Natasha looked over at Clint. “Couldn’t you just see her on the front cover of something?”

“She’d be a hit.” Clint winked at her.

Wanda laughed, blushing furiously. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about modeling.”

“It’s not so hard,” Natasha said. “Just pretend that the camera is some terribly attractive person and then behave accordingly.”

She cleared her throat. “What, freak out and not make eye contact?” 

“Not _quite_ what I meant, but I’ll give you points for honesty.” Natasha was smiling. “When I modeled, I just made a habit of eye-fucking the camera as much as possible. It worked great.”

Wanda tried hard not to picture that and failed. “I’m more of a behind-the-scenes sort of girl,” she said. 

“Oh, that reminds me, Wanda,” Natasha said, “I read your article from last night.” She gave her a deep red, secret sort of smile. “Liked it a lot.” 

But before Wanda could reply, music started playing from the speakers — Marvin Gaye, what a surprise — and Sam was calling people to come dance. Sam and Bucky excused themselves, with Pietro pulling Clint after them, and, so unobtrusively Wanda barely noticed, Sharon detached herself from their now greatly depleted clique and fell into conversation with a woman who was wasting no time in letting everyone know that she was the mother of the man of the hour. 

They were alone. 

“You’re a good writer, Wanda,” Natasha continued. “I really admire that.”

“You’re a good employer,” Wanda replied. For a while, they simply watched the others dance — Steve and Bucky waltzing like ninety-year-olds, Clint and Pietro making up for a mutual lack of talent with sheer enthusiasm — and then Wanda bit the bullet.

“About yesterday evening,” she began, “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” 

There was silence. Wanda didn’t dare look at the woman beside her. “If you want,” she continued after the silence had dragged into a full minute, “I can start looking for another job. I get it. It’s okay.”

“Why would I do that?” Natasha said. Over the speakers, the song changed. Ellie Goulding now. “You’re one of the best writers we’ve got. In fact —” she gave her another little smile — “I was planning on telling you come Monday, but since we’re here, I’ve been thinking of taking you on as a full employee. Not just an intern.”

“… _oh_ ,” Wanda managed after a good few seconds.

“I mean, we’re publishing your stories. You deserve it.” 

“I — um — I mean — sorry, I just wasn’t — I wasn’t expecting —”

“ _Thank you_ will do for now,” Natasha said. She winked. Wanda went red all over again.

“Thank you,” she said. 

“And, about yesterday…”

“Yes?”

Natasha gave her a smile. “It’s okay.”

Wanda stared in bewilderment. “Seriously.”

“You’re a good kisser.”

“Thank you?”

More silence. Then something moved in Wanda’s periphery. She looked down to see that Natasha had just extended her hand. “Come on,” she said. Wanda blinked at it, uncomprehending, and Natasha sighed. “Do you want to dance with me or not?” she asked.

 *

There were certain things that, a few years ago, Wanda could have imagined in her life. A book deal, a job, her old roommate (question mark, check, ex). Waltzing a former model who also happened to be her current employer across the polished floor of a country club never entered her head as a possibility, and yet here she was: their fingers interlocked, one hand at the center of Natasha’s back, spinning her under her arm.

“Did Sharon do your makeup?” asked Natasha. Wanda nodded, her mouth too dry to reply properly. “Thought I recognized the technique. Have you… talked to her recently?” Her tone was too casual to be anything but studied.

Wanda found her tongue at last, sensing her underlying meaning. “Yes. Yes, I have.”

“About me?” She gave her a little smile. “Please. Don’t look so worried. I don’t mind.” 

Truthfully, Wanda was less concerned by the conversation and more by Natasha’s hips, which swayed back and forth, back and forth…

“Wanda.” Startled by the sound of her name on her employer’s lips, her gaze flew up to meet hers. She was smiling at her, far more gently than she’d expected. 

“Ma’am?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, and another wave of heat rushed up to Wanda’s face. She hadn’t meant to say it.

With a rustle of black silk — and Wanda was dimly aware of the music changing, shifting to something slower, more sultry, as though it were right on cue — Natasha stepped closer, the hand at the center of Wanda’s back firmer as she maneuvered her backward. 

The room had suddenly lost all its air, and Wanda was the only one who noticed.

“You should be outlawed,” Natasha murmured, mouth perilously close, eyes on her face. “With that pretty red dress, those pretty red lips, your _ma’ams…”_

“Okay, that was unintentional,” Wanda began.

“Are you kidding? Don’t apologize for art.”

“You’re calling that art?”

Natasha half-smiled. “I’d say I’m looking at a masterpiece right now, wouldn’t you?”

Wanda had to look away at that, a smile pulling unstoppably at her mouth. “About last night…” she began. 

“We don’t need to discuss it, Wanda.”

“What if I want to?” Her heart was beating hard enough that she could feel it in her throat. “What if I actually… you know… want to keep on doing it?” They had slowed to a standstill on the floor, hands still linked. 

Natasha was very close, her lips a deep, tempting red. Wanda licked her own lips, mindless of the lipstick that smudged onto her tongue, and couldn’t quite tear her eyes away.

And then Natasha tilted her head slightly and kissed her. 

It was a light, little thing, and it left Wanda breathless. She closed the few inches of space that was left between them and closed her eyes, breathed in the rich scent of Natasha’s perfume.

“Take me home,” she said before she could stop herself. She half-expected Natasha to raise an eyebrow, make some remark, but she said nothing at all except, _yes, of course._

*

Wanda wised up at around the point they reached Natasha’s car. _What am I doing?_ she thought as she climbed into the leather upholstered backseat. _She’s my boss, and I just as good as told her I wanted to sleep with her, and she’s_ letting _me…_

Natasha was seated beside her, and the chauffeur’s eyes were on the road. With a lazy flick of her finger, she raised the partition and then turned toward Wanda, who stared at her in surprise. She was licking her lips again without even thinking about it. 

Kisses, open-mouthed and hungry. Wanda only broke away to look down as Natasha unclipped her seatbelt — and suddenly, she was in Natasha’s lap, red tulle frothing up around her waist, knees on either side of Natasha’s thighs, and Natasha was kissing her jawline, down the spot beneath her left ear. Wanda hummed and ran a hand down the lace on Natasha’s bodice — it was all far bolder than she ever dared to be, but she was drunk on adrenaline and perfume and the heady want bolting through her veins. 

With a little growl that sent waves of something she hadn’t felt for a long time rushing down to Wanda’s core, Natasha pushed her against the partition, slid a hand up the inside of her thigh and pulled her panties to the side. A fingertip found Wanda’s clit in seconds; with a little yelp, she rolled her hips into it as Natasha pulled her bodice down with her free hand to mouth at one breast. 

“Won’t — your chauffeur — _oh —_ won’t he mind —?” Wanda said breathlessly, eyes closed. 

“I know you don’t actually care about that,” Natasha said, and Wanda nodded; she didn’t care at all, all that really mattered was the friction in her panties, and Natasha pulling her hair out of her chignon, biting her earlobe, kissing her hard on the mouth, and Wanda’s legs were shaking around hers already. 

“Oh — _oh —!”_

The car slowed to a stop, and Wanda slumped heavily onto Natasha’s lap again. Her hair was in a messy tangle against one shoulder, her clit still throbbing, and Natasha was kissing her more gently. There was cherry red lipstick on one of her breasts, just above her nipple.

“Sorry,” Natasha said at last, in a daze.

“Huh?”

“Well, I was _going_ to take you up to the penthouse and make sweet love to you. That didn’t go as planned.”

“Not complaining,” Wanda said, finally finding her tongue. “Definitely not complaining.”

With a secret sort of smile, Natasha kissed her again, one hand sliding down her back, her ass, the back of her thigh. “You’re a picture,” she said.

“Am I allowed to return the favor?” Wanda asked. The question came out less tentative than she meant it; something about letting Natasha put her hands on her made her reckless. 

“I was hoping you would.” She took her hand. “Let me show you where the magic happens.”

*

Magic. Wanda didn’t put a lot of stock in it, but now she was beginning to change her opinion. Magic was silk sheets — because _of course_ Natasha had silk sheets — and Natasha undoing the zipper of her dress, stepping closer to nuzzle into Wanda’s neck, and magic was Wanda turning in her arms as layers of red tulle slid around her ankles. Magic was Natasha kissing down her jaw and gently removing Wanda’s earrings. Magic was Wanda landing on her back on the bed, was Natasha wriggling out of her dress and climbing on after her, was Wanda rolling her onto her back with a daring she didn’t know that she had and kissing down her stomach. Magic was the taste of her on her tongue, and Natasha’s fingers in her hair, and the sheer fucking insanity of their situation. Smudged lipstick and wet fingers. 

Wanda could worry about consequences in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr @williamshakennotstirred, if you want drop by and say hi!


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